A Friend in Tweed
by SketcherPretorius
Summary: Six months after Sherlock Holmes falls off the top of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, an odd sort of telephone box appears on the corner of Baker Street. It's the Doctor, and he's come to investigate the mysterious goings-on regarding this man called Sherlock Holmes.


The graveyard was deserted, a light fog putting a damper on sound and the trees holding their breath. There was silence, the kind of silence that seems deliberate, like there had been a creak of a stair only moments before. It was a fitting day for nothing. to happen, or for anything to happen.

There was the creak of a gate. Quiet footsteps on the grass. A tall, dark man made his slow, deliberate way through the gravestones. He stopped in front of one.

SHERLOCK HOLMES, the headstone read.

The man's piercing gaze lingered on the engraved name before taking in the grave's surroundings: a path to the stone beginning to be worn into the ground, made by someone with a cane; scattered petals of various flowers in front of the stone showed signs of bouquets left at the site day after day; the top of the stone showed signs of wear, like someone had touched it many times.

Sherlock Holmes stood in front of his gravestone and let his silent appreciation flow through the universe.

Somewhere in deep space was a blue box spinning and shaking its way through the stars. Inside it was another man.

This man flipped switches, typed on a typewriter, and pulled a rope that went ding. He pulled a lever that began playing music loud enough to cover the sound of the klaxons blaring through his ship, then quickly pulled it the opposite way. He spun around and attempted to press a button with his foot, only to find that his pants were too short and constrictive. The man-the Doctor-was rushing about his spaceship, trying to save it from a mysterious energy force. He was not, in fact, having fun. Well, maybe a bit.

"Come on, old girl," the Doctor said encouragingly. "You can do it-whoa!" The ship pitched sideways, and he was thrown off the console. He rolled down the stairs and stopped at the front doors, accompanied by a few small metal objects. They clinked and clanged on the floor as the Doctor tried to sit up. "What-" he gasped, then scrambled to his feet. He ran for the console, leapt the last two feet, and landed with his hand on a very important button.

Slowly, everything stopped. The klaxons died, the TARDIS stopped shaking, and all was quiet and still. The Doctor exhaled, clambered to his feet, and let go of the button. He swung the viewing screen around and, catching his reflection, quickly straightened his bowtie. Focusing his attention to the information on the screen, he frowned.

Something was wrong. Or, perhaps, something was right. Something was so right, the TARDIS had sensed waves of pure emotion-emotion so powerful, it could punch a hole in the universe.

"But that's not possible," said the Doctor aloud. The amount of energy required to do something like that would have to come from an entire spaceship. He knew; he'd seen it done before. But how in the galaxy could so much energy be produced by something that wasn't a spaceship?

He had to investigate.

The bowtie-clad man let go of the viewing screen, typed in some numbers, hit the console with a mallet, and careened through time and space.

In a quiet part of London, a third man was out for a walk.

He had a limp and a cane and a distant look on his face. He seemed to be remembering a wish made months ago, a wish to a friend.

One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead.

John Watson-for that was his name-sighed heavily. He looked up at the grey sky that seemed to weigh down upon the world like a shock blanket. This analogy made him wince as a memory flashed before his eyes.

John decided to catch a cab. He'd had enough of his walk. It was bringing back some unwanted memories. Once the cab arrived, he clambered in and thought about his life after...what happened.

He had reapplied for the job at the hospital he had lost, and that was going well. He had moved back into his old flat and stopped paying rent for 221B, which remained empty even after this long, although he did meet up with Mrs. Hudson once in a while for tea and comfort. The media seemed to have forgotten about the scandalous Sherlock Holmes, though occasionally there would be a mention of his name in an article about fallen celebrities or a mysterious death.

Some bloke had begun to write stories about Sherlock and selling them. John had met him once. He was a nice man, had a nice moustache, but for the life of him John couldn't remember his name. Boyle or something like that.

As the cab drove through the streets of the city, they entered Baker Street. John looked ahead on the road and saw Speedy's Café and, next to it, 221B. John's face grew solemn as the past began to catch up to him. The backs of his eyes began to burn, a sure sign of tears. John covered his eyes with his hand and took a few deep breaths. He didn't know why, after six months, he still wasn't over his friend's death.

When John looked up again, Baker Street was behind them, and the cab was nearing the busier part of London. John sighed and looked out the window, looking at the buildings but not really seeing them. When they reached his flat, John paid the driver five pounds more than he meant to and clambered out of the cab.

What he hadn't seen on his drive past Baker Street was a deep blue telephone box.


End file.
